


from you the flowers grow

by fleurmatisse



Series: west virginia, mountain mama [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Castiel, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2018, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 14:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16452071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurmatisse/pseuds/fleurmatisse
Summary: Castiel has spent the last six years building a life for himself in the backwoods of West Virginia. He has friends, dogs, even goats to look after along with a nursery (the plant kind, not the child kind). After a long-lost family member arrives in town, Castiel’s Angelic nature is revealed, and now he has the distrustful townspeople, an overly curious hunter, and his tumultuous past to contend with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this fic ([masterpost here](https://lowkeyguru.tumblr.com/post/179557603641/my-dcbb-illustrations-for-winkingwinchesters-from)) has been created by the amazingly talented [lowkeyguru](https://lowkeyguru.tumblr.com/). If your eyes haven't been blessed by Liz's beautiful art, I suggest you remedy that immediately.
> 
>  **Additional Warnings:** canon-typical gore, discussions of medical experimentation (not on a main character), mentions of brainwashing/torture in line with canon angels, and animals/pets in danger (more on that in the end notes with spoilers).

The Bubbling Springs Market looks like the classic barn: big and red with white accents around the doors and windows. Castiel has missed it the past week and a half but still he pauses before he gets out of his truck, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt. The strip of buttons bubble at the center of his chest. He looks down; somehow in his haste to get dressed he criss-crossed the buttonholes.

As he fixes his error, he glances at his reflection in the rear view mirror: still a warm gray, like someone who’s about to become a corpse, and the wet hair isn’t helping. At least Hilde isn’t here yet. Maybe getting some work done in the gardens, pouring rain and all, will give him a healthy flush by the time she comes in.

Finally he buttons the very top button of his shirt, checks his sleeves are just touching the heels of his hands, the final preparations for every trip out of the house. Luckily it hasn’t gotten warm enough for it to start feeling like he’s suffocating with every possible inch of skin covered.

Penelope whines as he gets out of the truck, front feet pawing at the edge of the seat. Castiel grabs her harness and helps her out of the truck and onto the gravel, where she walks across both his feet. As soon as she’s sure of her place on the ground, she tugs him toward an unfamiliar black car parked just in front of the market’s entrance. He sees Sheena’s car around the side of the building and tries to hurry Penelope along; he’s already late, and Sheena is not as forgiving a boss as Hilde.

He gets as far as the eaves. At least he’s not going to go inside dripping wet.

Penelope, blissfully ignorant of his increasing stress, continues to sniff at the car’s tires. Castiel glances inside, hoping that Sheena is in the back and not bearing witness to this display of insolence, and spots the men in suits. They’re loitering by the display of snacks. He doesn’t recognize either of them; his heart picks up its pace anyway. While he watches, the shorter one picks up a honey stick, turning it in his hand, only for the taller one to take it and put it back on the display. Castiel is noticed when the shorter one rolls his eyes and happens to turn his head toward the entryway.

“Penelope,” Castiel urges quietly, tugging at her leash. He doesn’t look through the doors again, even as he can feel eyes on him. It’s best not to cause a scene. She takes one final sniff of the car and then joins him inside the market. The men in suits approach.

“Steve Fischer?” the taller one says.

Castiel doesn’t let himself feel relieved; they could be playing along for Sheena’s sake. “Yes?”

They flash badges at him. Penelope shakes, showering them with water. The shorter of the pair jumps back and looks like he’d like to start yelling beneath the professional coating.

“Sorry,” Castiel says. Penelope wags her tail. “She hasn’t learned her manners yet.”

“Obviously not,” the shorter one grumbles, brushing water droplets off his pants. The taller one raises his eyebrows meaningfully before turning back to Castiel.

“Mr. Fischer, I’m Detective Ulrich and this is Detective Hetfield,” he says. “We’re with the West Virginia State Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your cousin, Hilde.”

“Why?” Castiel says.

“She’s missing,” Detective Hetfield says.

Castiel watches them exchange looks. It doesn’t look like they’re joking. “What?”

“When’s the last time you saw Hilde?” Detective Ulrich asks.

“Last week,” Castiel says. She came over to make sure he wasn’t dead and that he could handle all the animals by himself; she didn’t appreciate when he said he’d done more feeling worse. “I’ve been sick.”

“Was there anything odd about her demeanor?” Hetfield asks. “Anything to suggest she was leaving town?”

“No,” Castiel says. Her daughter is expecting a baby, but she would have told him if she was leaving—or, at least, she would have told Sheena. “How long has she been missing?”

“Her business partner, Ms. Baker, filed a missing persons report on Thursday,” Hetfield says. “She said you were the last person to see her, Tuesday afternoon.”

Castiel can’t think. He still isn’t used to the way panic reduces his mind to mush, only giving him the worst possibilities. “Okay,” he says. If he was the last person to see her— “She didn’t say anything about leaving.”

“You live at her nursery, right?” one of the detectives asks. Castiel nods. “Have you noticed anything strange around?”

“Like what?” Castiel asks. A car accident. That’s the most likely possibility. With all the sharp curves on steep hills, Hilde could have gone careening off with no one able to see her car at the bottom of a bluff. 

“Cold spots, maybe,” the same detective says. Castiel’s mouth frowns before his brain catches up. He looks at Detective Hetfield, who adds, “Weird smells, sulfur, anything like that?”

Castiel blinks. He looks at Ulrich, standing tall but not imposing, practiced to be smaller than he is. Hetfield is standing more alert, watching Castiel watch him back with a sharp eye.

“Sulfur,” he repeats. They could truly be law enforcement. Or— “You suspect a demon?”

The so-called detectives exchange glances, each attempting to conceal alarm.

“Uh,” Ulrich says.

“Do...you suspect a demon?” Hetfield asks when Ulrich doesn’t follow up with anything.

“Should I?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t know what a demon would want with Hilde. A challenge, maybe, or just regular demon-in-need-of-a-body crap. 

But the not-detectives also asked him about cold spots.

“You don’t know,” he says.

Another glance is exchanged. Hetfield says, “We’re still gathering details,” and Ulrich makes a face that agrees.

Castiel considers them. They don’t look like amateurs despite the less than subtle questions. Along with the confidence in their ploy, Hetfield has thin scars running down the length of his cheek; Ulrich, on the other hand, has a certain air about him, an aura Castiel would have been better equipped to dissect years ago. Seasoned hunters, if that is what they are, don’t go looking for singular disappearances unless there are exceedingly strange circumstances. Or, Castiel thinks with a curl of dread, multiple people disappear. 

He tries to tally the cars he’s seen today, parked at various venues between the nursery and the market. “Who else is missing?”

“Jeffrey and Linda Hodge and their granddaughter Melody haven’t been seen since Wednesday,” Ulrich reads from a small notepad, “and Charles and Martha Miller disappeared from their store on Friday.” He looks at Hetfield and then turns the notepad around for Castiel to see. “This was at every place someone disappeared.”

_ CASTIEL _

Castiel steps back before he can stop himself. Penelope stands, looking at him expectantly.

“You know what that is,” Hetfield says.

It’s Enochian. The language of Angels.

“I have to go,” Castiel says, stepping backwards again and then turning on his heel to leave. The hunters follow.

“Hang on,” Hetfield calls after him. Castiel keeps walking.

“Mr. Fischer,” Ulrich tries. “If you know something, we can help.”

Castiel halts in his tracks, just out from the protection of the market’s roof. The hunters are just outside the doors when he turns. Penelope plants her feet between them and Castiel, tail lowered as she stares them down.

“If you want to help,” Castiel says, “stay out of my way.”

Hetfield makes to step forward, and Penelope growls, the noise rumbling deep around her barrel chest. Hetfield freezes.

“Just tell us what we’re dealing with here,” Hetfield says.

“ _ We _ are not dealing with anything,” Castiel says. He pulls lightly at Penelope’s leash, and she comes back to his side after a final growl. Hetfield doesn’t relax. “You’re better off not knowing.”

The hunters don’t try to follow him again. Castiel gathers Penelope into the truck and drives without looking back.

The trip back to the nursery is frantic. It’s a miracle he doesn’t go flying off a curve along the way. He parks just inside the gate and digs through the glove box with shaking hands. His fingers close around a pocket knife and he gets out of the truck. Penelope jumps out before he can close the door, but she takes the opportunity to gallop up to the house and wait on the porch. Castiel moves into the treeline, rain diffusing among the leaves, and rolls up his sleeve.

Between two curling scars he cuts into his arm, heavy-handed in his haste. He pockets the knife and dips his fingers into the blood bubbling up and dripping down to the leaf litter below. His wards shine from their places in the trees, carved when he first settled here and left to defend him from detection. He fills them with blood to close the boundaries. No one but him can cross in or out.

He drives up to the house with his arm out the window. He lets Penelope in the house, keeping the other dogs inside despite their barked protests, and goes to the shed to pick up loppers and a shovel.

Now he can get to work. 


	2. Chapter 2

At each corner of the nursery’s house, there are hydrangeas. Three of them are varying shades of blues and purples. The largest one, on the northeast corner, is pure white. The rain dilutes the blood running down Castiel’s arm as he butchers it, cutting away branches until he can reach the center. He switches from loppers to the shovel and starts digging. The roots are nearly as thick as the branches; he hacks through them with the shovel until he can’t and then he keeps going. He dug this when he was half-starved and newly human; he can dig it again while he’s losing too much blood.

Finally a glow starts to break through the dirt. Castiel abandons the shovel and drops to his knees, scooping the dirt away with his hands, feeling it merge with the blisters on his palms, the insides of his fingers. An old pickle jar sits in a tangle of roots; it comes loose with a single tug. Beneath it, a cardboard box waits for his attention. He sits back on his heels with the jar in his lap. He took it out of someone’s trash on his way through Pennsylvania; there’s still juice dried on the bottom, a sick yellow-green lit up by the magic swirling inside. 

_ BY THE GRACE OF GOD, YOU ARE BLESSED _

Castiel can feel his grace touching the inside of the glass like there’s no barrier. His stomach churns, whether from overexertion or what he’s about to do. It doesn’t really matter once he’s opened the jar.

The grace flares brighter as it winds its way out of the jar’s mouth, cautious. Castiel drops the lid on the ground and closes his eyes, breath ragged. The light blinds him, only for a moment, and then everything turns to flames.

Once, Hilde gave Castiel a shot of moonshine. He’d never had anything alcoholic—could never allow himself to be off-guard—so the shock of it almost overtook the burn as he swallowed. His grace returning to him feels almost the same, except it spreads past his digestive tract, singeing every nerve ending until he’s on the verge of unconsciousness. He digs his fingers into his thighs, forcing himself to breathe until that hurts more. After an eternity, his muscles start to relax. There’s a soreness in them, and then it’s swept away by a cool breeze.

Castiel feels his arm knit back together, the blisters on his hands get smoothed back into calluses. His every day aches and pains—the strain in his shoulders, the pain in his side—fade. He places a hand over his chest, feeling the indents of scars through his shirt and nothing else. After so many years, it’s both horrifying and a relief not to find a pulse.

It takes no effort at all to get to his feet, to kick the jar out of his way to the porch. He lets his grace carry him to the linen closet where his blade is hidden in a rolled up towel, to get him back in his truck and on the road. He rounds the old orchard grounds until he’s stopped in front of Hilde’s house.

It looks the same at a glance: flowers and birdhouses dotting the yard, vibrant yellow shutters and doors to brighten the graying siding, a slowly growing pond around the mailbox as it continues to rain. Everything Hilde did to make it her own is still there. Now something new coats the porch in a haze.

Castiel stops onto the front path. Silence bleeds across the yard. The painted rocks are slick under his shoes as he walks toward the house, blade in hand. 

His first step on the porch nearly knocks him off his feet. He watches as if through a screen of fog as Hilde opens the door, polite smile in place. She looks surprised after a moment, and then her smile returns, more genuine, as she steps aside to let an invisible visitor in. Castiel trails after them to the den, where Hilde offers her guest a seat. She leaves the room. Castiel follows. He gets close behind her as she grabs a glass, and before she can turn, he grabs her: one hand over her mouth while the other brandishes his blade. She disappears in the blink of an eye.

The spell snaps.

Castiel falls.

The impact of his knees shakes the porch. Across the wooden boards, beads of light flare to life, vibrating in the seams of the wood long after the porch stops moving. The lights shift, only a little at first. And then They merge and curl and unfold before his eyes.

_ CASTIEL _ they whisper  _ YOU ARE FOUND _

Castiel forces himself to stay in place, to think. He recognizes the grace woven through the spell, a rogue Angel he was supposed to capture a lifetime ago. He’s almost relieved. This isn’t Paradise threatening him. This is personal. When no other Angels show, he closes his eyes and reaches.

He knows Bubbling Springs like the back of his hands, could drives the roads backwards and blindfolded. He feels the brightness of his own grace at the nursery, and there—south of the market, in one of the abandoned barns along the road—he finds her.

He gets back in his truck. Jumping would be faster, but he reminds himself to be cautious; there are others that would like to find him, and advertising his location with any major uses of his grace will only bring them faster. Instead he drives as fast as his truck can handle. He stops at the curve before the barn and walks the rest of the way. The rain has let up, a sunset peeking through the clouds in the west. Castiel stands in the field in front of the barn, listening.

There are heartbeats inside. He holds himself statue still, counting the sources. Five—six—seven?

Someone else has been taken.

Castiel wastes no time in climbing the ladder to the trap door entrance. It announces his presence with a tiresome creak. He gets to his feet on the warped floor, blade drawn. There are no interior walls to keep him hidden from Adina. She peers at him above Hilde’s head, blade poised against her throat, looking the same as when Castiel last saw her. He can’t say the same of himself.

“Took you long enough,” she says. Castiel clenches his jaw at the sight of pain on Hilde’s face.  He wouldn’t be able to reach her before Adina could drive the blade home. “I’ve been waiting for days. I started to think you didn’t actually care about these people.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Castiel says. He turns his own blade in his hand, looking past her to count the huddled masses behind her: the Hodges and Millers are together; another person is propped against the far wall. He recognizes the shorter hunter, blood on his face, watching the exchange with those sharp eyes.

“You don’t want to hurt me?” Adina says. She tightens her grip on Hilde’s arm. “You  _ destroyed _ me, Castiel.”

“I was following orders,” Castiel says, training his eyes on Adina and Adina alone. His grace flows to his hands, simmering just below the surface. “If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been somebody else.”

“But it was you,” Adina says. Time slows as she shifts her grip on her blade. Castiel lifts his hands. In a flash of light, he sends her flying through the far wall. Hilde falls. Castiel catches her just before she hits the floor.

“Castiel?” she says. The confusion in her voice triggers an unpleasant twinge in his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, cutting through her restraints. He heals her as he does, relieving the bruises and eliminating her exhaustion. She grabs his hand when he offers her his pocket knife, making him pause.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. He makes no promises. Once she takes the knife, he follows Adina’s path out the far wall, dropping to the grass in a crouch. 

Adina is pulling herself out of a rut halfway across the field, mud darkening her hair. Her blade landed a few feet away. She summons it as Castiel approaches.

“You can still walk away,” he says. “I won’t follow.”

Adina raises her blade. “I have nowhere else to be.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel walks away with two broken ribs and a slash across his left shoulder. His grace mends the ribs as he walks back to the barn, Adina’s body nothing but ash behind him. It was a risk to burn her body, but he didn’t want to deal with real police hanging around. Her blade is a line of ice on his arm, stowed carefully up his sleeve like his own. He pulls his grace away from the stubborn cut on his shoulder before it has a chance to light up the wound, mending his shirt and clearing it of blood instead. The hunter is helping Martha to the ground when Castiel meets the group. Everyone is out on the grass.

The Millers are huddled together, talking quietly; Melody stares at him with wide eyes while her grandparents converse in sileve. Hilde is the only one to meet his eyes, but even her gaze is guarded as she watches him.

“You got a ride outta here?” the hunter asks.

“My truck is down the road,” Castiel says, focusing on him. “There isn’t enough room in the cab for everyone.”

“I’m down for a ride in a truck bed,” the hunter says. He addresses the group. “How about you all?”

“As long as he doesn’t drive as fast as he usually does,” Jeffrey says, and everyone else seems to agree.

“Room for two more in the front?” the hunter asks. Castiel nods. “Any takers?”

Nobody volunteers.

“I’ll go get the truck,” Castiel says. He feels the hunter watching him until he gets around the curve. He’s not going to think about it.

The ride back to town is slow. Castiel pours his focus into driving as carefully as possible to avoid the barbed thoughts poking at his skull as fiercely as his grace is trying to bring the edges of his wound together, hindered b the intentions of Adina’s blade. The Millers’ house is the closest to the barn, and they get out of the truck without even a glance toward Castiel. The hunter is watching him in the rear view mirror. He chooses to ignore that as well.

Hilde is the last to be dropped off. She declines the hunter’s offer to help her down and pauses beside Castiel’s open window. She holds out his pocket knife, still with blood at its hinge. He takes it, waiting for her to say something, anything, but she avoids his eyes and walks up the rock path without a word. He doesn’t jump when the passenger door opens, but it’s a near thing. The hunter climbs into the cab, wincing as he sits.

“Coulda used some cushions, but all in all not a bad ride,” he says. Castiel could heal him; it would be easier than trying to stitch his shoulder back together.

“Where should I take you?” he asks instead.

“Somewhere with a phone,” the hunter says. He looks in the side mirror, touches the cut along his cheek. He doesn’t seem horribly disturbed to be sitting next to Castiel, or to be prodding at an open wound. Like Castiel thought: not an amateur. “Romney if you feel like going above and beyond.”

The nursery has a phone, and it would take three minutes to get there from where they’re idling outside Hilde’s house. Romney is half an hour away.

“I can take you to Capon Bridge,” he says. It’s another fifteen minutes north, but that’s better than half an hour. “There’s a gas station at the edge of town with a pay phone.”

The hunter pats his pockets and scowls. “That bitch took my wallet.”

“I have change in the glove box,” Castiel says, quickly morphing the varying seeds and leaves he’s managed to collect into change.

“Capon Bridge it is,” the hunter says.

The drive starts out silent. Not quite peaceful, as there is a hunter—an armed hunter, Castiel’s grace informs him—in the passenger seat, but at least it is quiet. As they officially leave Bubbling Springs, the hunter speaks.

“You know, I can’t say I’ve heard the name Castiel before,” he says. “Is that a family name, or…?”

“No,” Castiel says, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. He stops his hands from tightening on the steering wheel.

“Your friends didn’t seem to know it,” the hunter says. Castiel glances at him. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to goad him. Castiel almost finds that more annoying.

“I can only assume you are not Detective Hetfield of the West Virginia State Police,” he says.

“Is that the same as keeping a false identity for years?” the hunter asks.

Castiel clenches his teeth. He could tell this hunter that it was meant to be protection, not only his but everyone else’s, or that Steve Fischer is a better version of himself, one that hasn’t killed anyone in loyalty to the wrong cause. It doesn’t matter. If the hunter finds him worth hunting, he’s welcome to shoot him right now. It won’t do anything but waste a bullet.

They reach the gas station before the hunter can choose another part of Castiel to prod at. Castiel waits as he gathers all the coins from the glove box, roughly three dollars worth, and opens the door. He looks over when the hunter still hasn’t gotten out.

“I’m Dean,” the hunter says.

Castiel stares at him until he looks away and then says, “I can’t say I’ve heard the name Dean before.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he gets out. “Thanks for the ride. And ganking the psycho murder bitch. And the quarters.”

Castiel doesn’t respond. Dean shuts the door. Castiel waits until he’s gotten to the phone to drive away.

Mostly because the truck refuses to shift out of park.

 

After Castiel gets back to the nursery, he allows the dogs to run through the mud to their hearts’ content. He takes the box out of the hydrangea’s former home and sets it on the porch before he refills the hole. The butchered branches get clipped more until the flowers have been saved for vases in the workshop behind the house. Already their white is fading to a delicate blue, though in the yard they emit a soft light along the veins of the petals. He leaves them in the fridge, where the fluorescent lights cancel out their glow.

From the farthest part of the yard, Castiel hears a quiet bleat. He turns and finds the goats out in their own yard, watching him, and amongst them Athena, a long-haired mutt, watches over the herd. Yogurt bleats at him again, louder not that he’s looking at her, milk-colored fur just visible in the moonlight. He wanders back to them and gets a chorus of yells and hums as a greeting. They crowd the gate as he walks in.

None of them hesitate now that he has his grace. The dogs didn’t seem to care either. He hasn’t run into any of the cats yet, but he has hope that they won’t reject him on magical grounds at least.

Not that he plans to keep his grace indefinitely. It’s more dangerous to have it than now, but he’ll give it at least a week to make sure Adina was the only sibling to find him. She certainly wouldn’t be the only one to use the locals as leverage.

The goats keep him occupied for nearly an hour; each time he finishes petting one, another takes their place, and he can’t bring himself to leave any of them without attention. It’s the dogs that convince him to bid the goats goodnight. Mostly Maurice, who sits on the other side of the fence and yips until Castiel returns to the yard. Maurice sprints back to the house as soon as the gate is closed, and Castiel has no choice but to follow.

He picks up the box on the way in. The cardboard has held up well considering the environment it was in. It’s a little soft, not holding its shape in his hands, but when he opens it at the kitchen island, the wallet inside is mostly dry and dirt-free, and the keys only have a hint of rust alond their teeth. He sets the keys aside and opens the wallet. The photo in the plastic sleeve is damp, a little moldy, but the image of the family in it is still visible.

A man whose face matches Castiel’s, his smiling wife, a happy little girl. The ID proclaims him to be James Novak of Pontiac, Illinois. Castiel looks at the matching, unsmiling face and tries to see the similarities. Castiel’s face has more lines, more hair, more scars. It’s been years since he’s had this staring contest. He still can’t win.


	4. Chapter 4

As much as Castiel would like things to magically return to normal, they don’t. He feels the stares in the Millers’ feed store when it reopens a few days after he’s killed Adina. He hears the rumors circulating that  _ he  _ was the one to take everyone, that he must have been spooked when the cops came to town. The only relief is that the rumors are spread carrying  _ Steve _ and not  _ Castiel _ . 

Martha is nice in the way she is with everyone, but Castiel can feel the unease rolling off of her as he buys six months’ worth of supplies purely to avoid another interaction like this. Charles comes out of the back during the exchange and stands behind his sister projecting the knowledge that there’s a gun just beyond the doorway. Penelope still gets a treat from behind the counter, at least.

The market is different only because most of the people there are from Capon Bridge, and therefore are not entirely entwined in the fabric of Bubbling Springs’ gossip community. Castiel usually works in the gardens with Penelope stretched out along the fence to which her leash is tied. He’s fallen behind on the planting schedule, the seedlings destined for rows along the back half of the market outgrowing their trays in the meantime. If he hadn’t gotten sick for the first time in ten years, he wouldn’t be rushing to pull weeds.

He also would have known Adina had found him sooner.

But Hilde has left town to stay with her daughter, which leaves Sheena to run the market alone. The teenagers who work during the summer haven’t been let out of school yet, so Castiel works inside for most of the day with Penelope constantly underfoot. Sheena doesn’t go out of her way to speak to Castiel, but that’s one thing that’s remained normal; she’s never liked him, and he suspects she’s known he’s a liar this whole time. It’s almost a comfort every time she passes him standing behind his register and doesn’t even glance his way.

After that first day back at the market, Castiel starts working at night, long after everyone else has gone to bed. It’s the best way to combat the sleeplessness he’s grown unused to. Where before he hardly noticed the shift from day to night, now he watches to moon rise and feels the phantom exhaustion of a long day’s work and the restless dread of knowing he’ll be watching the sun return to the sky hours later.

The gardens at the market are just starting to get out of control. Castiel spends the first night clearing them out while Penelope sleeps in the gazebo at the top of the hill to avoid the wet grass. Just before the sun peeks over the horizon he returns home to change his clothes and feed all his beasts, making sure everyone has water that will last until the afternoon. Penelope whines as he locks up the house with her still inside, upgrading to howls as he drives away. Sheena doesn’t say anything about the gardens.

He starts transplanting seedlings that next night, leaving them with carefully whispered blessings to keep them warm until morning. It makes the gardens look like a distant galaxy: every seedling sits in a sphere of dim white light that sparkles if he turns his head the right way. It won’t be visible to anyone else, but he sits in the gazebo and watches the lights shift as it gets cooler, Penelope’s rumbling snores mixing with the crickets and peepers to provide a strangely soothing soundtrack. 

He comes back a third night to make sure the seedlings have settled in, sitting again in the gazebo with Penelope, and the fourth night he works to set up the hoops and plastic sheeting over the rows before a cold front pushes in. 

He likes working this way, he decides, when he can finish his tasks without interruption from anyone asking what he’s doing. He doesn’t mind talking to the customers, especially when they tell him about their own gardens, but at night he can let the cacophony of the other nocturnal creatures wash over him like a balm. It reminds him of when Hilde first started letting him in her gardens, just weeks after they first met; back then, it had been a distraction from a more physical pain, but it still has the same effect. It lets him focus on one task, on one little life at a time, instead of the repeating memories of Adina and Daniel and the quiet ride delivering everyone home.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks after Adina swept through town, Castiel is shaken out of a mindless rest in the field by the ringing of the nursery’s bell. He leaves the goats to their browsing and walks back to the house, staying in the woods up to the corner of the fence. Standing on the porch next to the bell is the hunter—Dean. There’s something in his left hand. As Castiel watches, Dean turns and peers first through the propped-open screen door and then the front windows.

_ Hunters _ . Castiel rolls his eyes and makes his way to the gate, rolling his sleeves back down to his wrists and buttoning the top button of his shirt. If he doesn’t interrupt Dean now, there’s no doubt in his mind the hunter would wind up snooping around the house.

Dean whips around at the sound of the gate closing, clasping his hands behind his back like he wasn’t just considering going inside uninvited. “Hey,” he calls, unclasping his hands to wave as Castiel follows the path to the steps. The cut on his cheek has faded into a thin line, the bruising nothing more than a slight shadow. “This place is nice. Lots of plants, which is...the point of a nursery, so you must be doing something right.”

Castiel stops at the bottom of the steps, frowning up at Dean in the way that gets most people in Romney to change paths to avoid him. “Why are you here?”

Dean brandishes the thing in his hand: a file folder. “I found this.”

“And what is  _ this _ ?” Castiel asks after Dean doesn’t elaborate.

“Look for yourself,” Dean says, holding the file out. 

Castiel recognizes the Aquarian Star. “Where did you get that?”

Dean shrugs, sharp gaze out in full-force. Castiel resists rolling his eyes again and meets Dean at the top of the steps, taking the file. He almost expects it to burn his hands; the Men of Letters must be turning in their early graves for him to be touching something of theirs. Even worse, when he flips it open, the first page’s header states the contents to be “ _ ANGELS. _ ”

The quotations are unnecessary, Castiel thinks with an old stab of irritation. He skims through the pages, mainly compiled rumors and theories no better than a hunter’s journal, until he gets to a full-page diagram of a body, marked with various scars and a large, familiar sigil in the center of the chest. 

There are notes on the next page detailing experiments with different materials, testing what might kill an angel, and on the page after that is another diagram, this time of the internal anatomy. It’s all the same as a regular human, except for the grace, which they somehow extracted, killing the nameless, apparently male Angel. 

He closes the file. “The Men of Letters were torturers. That is what you wanted to show me?”

“No,” Dean says. He’s still watching Castiel closely, but now there’s an edge to it. Castiel realizes it’s disappointment as Dean says, “I thought you might have more of a reaction.”

“I apologize if I did not amuse you,” Castiel says. 

“That’s not—” Dean holds his hand out for the file. Castiel does not return it. Dean’s hand drops. “If you look in the back, there are some police reports. I think Angels,” he says like it’s the most ridiculous word imagineable, “are killing each other.”

_ They tend to do that _ , Castiel thinks, but he looks anyway. There are eleven reports in total, from various states and dating back as far as ten years. If Dean wants a more accurate picture, he should start looking considerably earlier. Castiel picks up the trend that all the dead are unnamed, the cases unsolved, and the only thing to connect them are the matching scars on their chests. He checks the physical descriptions and recognizes four, including Daniel.

“You intend to hunt Angels?” Castiel asks.

“It seems like they’re getting out of hand,” Dean says. 

“This,” Castiel says, raising the folder, “is not hunter business.”

If Dean discovers what the sigils mean, then it will be hunter business. If he had found the wallet Castiel has tucked behind a book in the den,  _ he _ would be hunter business.

“And what about the next time an Angel takes people hostage?” Dean asks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “‘Too bad, it’s not any of my business, we have to let the monsters take care of it themselves?’”

Castiel narrows his eyes. Dean’s gaze doesn’t waver. Castiel can feel his conviction, whether genuine or a result of Castiel’s resistance.

“You want  _ me _ to help you hunt Angels,” he says. Dean doesn’t deny it. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

“Then explain it to me,” Dean challenges.

Castiel clenches his jaw, looking out at the gardens. He got out of this. He got out of it, and he won’t be forced back by some stubborn hunter who would like to sacrifice himself to a hopeless cause. 

“Do you have a family?” Castiel asks. Dean’s face shifts a fraction away from defiant. “If someone you’ve barely met asked you to hunt them, would you?” 

Castiel watches the defiance spark back to life, though it doesn’t match the swell of emotion that pours around him.

“If this is your family killing each other, why aren’t you doing something?” Dean asks. “Shouldn’t you be trying to stop them more than anyone else?”

“I’ve tried,” Castiel snaps. It’s gone wrong every time. His grace roils against his ribs, threatening to flare up, to get Dean off this porch and send him far, far away. “You’re welcome to get yourself killed in your own attempts, but I have grown too tired of death to assist you. And I’m keeping this,” he adds, gesturing with the folder again. 

He stalks away before Dean has a chance to respond, slamming the front door shut as he goes and making sure the lock clicks behind him. The dogs, in various beds around the open first floor, lift their heads to look at him. He throws the folder down on the table by the door, papers flying out of it, and waits until Dean has driven away to drop to the floor. Wolfgang gets off of the giant orthopedic bed meant for Penelope and climbs into Castiel’s lap. He was Castiel’s first dog. When he was a puppy, he would only sleep if Castiel was holding him, and Castiel would watch him breathe, just to be sure he hadn’t accidentally killed the first little creature that was completely dependent on him. 

Now Wolfgang curls up in the valley of Castiel’s folded legs as if Castiel is not radiating anger that he’s not sure belongs to him. Castiel watches his tiny chest rise and fall until the only noise in his head is a quiet buzz, not quite peaceful, but no longer a raging storm either. 

He has to be back at the market soon. 

He can spare time for this.


	6. Chapter 6

The nursery phone rings while Castiel is repotting plants in the greenhouse early the next morning. He hears it vying for his attention, considers putting his task on hold, but ultimately decides not to answer; if he didn’t have his grace, he wouldn’t have been awake and doesn’t want to set a precedent for even earlier mornings. He puts it out of his mind until the machine picks up and Hilde’s voice reaches his ears.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says, and his hands freeze. “It’s me. I thought you might be up already, but I guess not.”

He should go pick up the phone.

“Annie had her baby this morning! A little boy, looks just like her when she was a baby, you know. A little hard to look at.”

Castiel feels himself smiling. Annie’s baby pictures are truly a sight to behold.

“They haven’t decided on a name yet,” Hilde continues. “But I’m a grandmother!” She laughs. “Everyone is happy and healthy, and Annie told me to tell you she demands you visit before the baby turns one.”

Castiel’s smile fades with Hilde’s sigh.

“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” she says. “I needed a little time after all that nonsense. But I love you, and I miss you, and I will talk to you soon, okay?” She leaves a little pause, a final chance for him to pick up the phone and then says, “Okay, bye.”

The spider plant in front of him blur, and for the first time in weeks, he feels like he has to sit down. He plants himself on a stool and presses the mostly-clean backs of his wrists to his eyes, a noise coming out of him that might be a laugh. 

From the time he met Hilde, she ended every call with her daughter the same way:  _ Love you, miss you, talk soon _ . The first time she ended a call to him with  _ love you, talk soon _ , he thought it was just a slip of the tongue, automatic, and so he cast it aside. She kept saying it, though, and he’d started to respond in kind, accepting her affection and learning how to return it. 

He never expected to receive it again.

He allows himself a moment of stunned relief, and then he gets back on his feet and finishes repotting his spider plant, one of the first he was ever tasked with caring for. He splits it into two and gives some of their plantlets pots of their own as well. The house is full of spider plants already, but he’s sure he’ll find space for the new ones too.

 

The peace of the morning lasts until a car rumbles to a halt in the market’s parking lot. Castiel glances at it on reflex as he’s giving Mr. Franklin, a regular from Capon Bridge, his change, and when he sees Dean step out of it, he has to stop himself from cursing. 

Mr. Franklin follows his gaze and whistles. “That’s a nice ride.”

Dean waves to Castiel like they’re on friendly terms, and Mr. Franklin looks at Castiel with raised eyebrows.

“A friend of yours?” he asks.

“An acquaintance,” Castiel corrects diplomatically. “Have a good day, Mr. Franklin.”

“You, too, Steven,” Mr. Franklin says, even though Castiel’s name tag has only ever said Steve. As he leaves, passing Dean on the way in, Castiel hears him say, “Beautiful car.”

Dean grins. “She is, isn’t she?”

Castiel elects to ignore them for his own sanity. Unfortunately, there are no other customers to distract him. He abandons the register to feign straightening up the selection of fresh fruits by the side doors. Dean joins him a few minutes later. Castiel can only hope Sheena doesn’t see someone she may or may not believe is a police officer talking to him; they’re just starting to get back to the normal levels of mutual avoidance.

“Two for one apricots,” Dean reads off the chalkboard sign. Castiel sees him nodding from the corner of his eye. “Good deal.”

“Did you come back for the organic locally grown fruit?” Castiel asks, even though he’s fairly certain he knows the answer.

“Uh, no,” Dean says like the idea of consuming a fruit is reprehensible. 

“Some freshly baked bread?” Castiel suggests. “Perhaps some sparklers or maybe a pack of smoke bombs?”

“You guys sell fireworks?”

Castiel points to a sign at the back without deviating from his task. Mr. Franklin did leave a hole in the display of cantaloupes, and getting them to stay in place is somewhat of a struggle when all they want is to roll around on the floor.

“Huh,” Dean says. He angles his body toward Castiel after a few seconds. “I think you know why I came back.”

Of course Castiel knows why he came back. And surely Dean knows why Castiel is refusing to bite. Or at least he knows part of the reason.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Castiel says. He finally gets the cantaloupes to stick to a new formation and has little choice but to face Dean and blink like he actually is oblivious.

“Cut the crap, man,” Dean says.

“You haven’t given me a reason to,” Castiel replies, letting a cold edge slip into the words. 

Dean is not deterred. “I don’t believe you don’t care. You wouldn’t be getting so pissed off if you didn’t.”

“I never said I don’t care,” Castiel says, just this side of too loud. He glances at the doors to the back rooms, where Sheena is taking inventory, but she doesn’t come out. He forces the storm of his grace to settle again. “I am working. This is an inappropriate environment for this conversation.”

Dean seems to consider this, and then looks at his watch. “Do you get a lunch break?”

Castiel sighs.


	7. Chapter 7

The gazebo is still not an appropriate environment to talk about Angels, but it’s better than inside the market itself. This way, Castiel will be able to see anyone walk out to the gardens and theoretically cut off the conversation before they can overhear. 

Dean left and came back with McDonald’s, including a Happy Meal for Castiel that he seems to take great pleasure in nudging toward him across the bench.

“I’m not going to eat that,” Castiel says.

“What are you, a health nut?” Dean asks, already midway through a double cheeseburger. Something horrible seems to occur to him. “Tell me you’re not a vegetarian.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and pushes the Happy Meal away. “Would that get you to leave me alone?”

“It might,” Dean says, and Castiel gets the feeling it’s an honest answer.

He considers lying but eventually says, “I don’t need to eat.”

“But you could.”

“I’d rather not.”

Dean seems to accept this. He finishes the double cheeseburger and starts eating fries. “So how much of that Men of Letters file is accurate?”

“Before I answer that,” Castiel says, “I would like to propose an exchange.”

“An exchange,” Dean echoes.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “If I’m going to tell you anything about Angels, I expect information in return.”

Dean looks annoyed for a brief second. “What kind of information?”

“Whatever kind of information I find to be an equal trade.”

Dean stares at Castiel and Castiel stares back. He’s not going to waver on this condition. 

“Fine,” Dean says eventually. “You wanna shake on it?”

“Not particularly,” Castiel says. 

“So the file?” Dean prompts. 

“I didn’t read all of it,” Castiel says. He’d barely picked up the fallen pages before Hund decided to make them an afternoon snack. Dean waves a hand. “The experiments had accurate conclusions. The rest seemed to be theories that varied from laughable to almost correct.” He glances away from the market’s doors to Dean and says, “You can be certain I am not a heavenly creature of light. We merely share the name.”

“Yeah, capital-G-God angels were the farthest thing from my mind,” Dean says, some of his irritation still in his voice. “I also don’t think you’re another class of demon or a science experiment gone wrong.”

Castiel keeps his expression neutral. “Why is that?”

“Well, for one, demons are all smoke and invisible forces and crap,” Dean says. “What I’ve seen from you is all light, which could just be a farce, but I also don’t think you would have had everyone you know kidnapped to prove you could save them with a light show.”

“And why am I not a science experiment gone wrong?” Castiel asks.

“Because that’s about as stupid as expecting you to be a biblical angel,” Dean answers with a scoff. 

Castiel hums. “I won’t bore you with our creation myth,” he says. “I’m afraid if you want to find your murderous Angel, I will have to bore you with a history lesson.”

“I’ll try not to fall asleep,” Dean says. He eats the Happy Meal while Castiel talks. 

“Angels are built for order,” Castiel says. He feels himself speaking as if from a distance as he goes on. “They thrive with routine and instruction, which started out as something good.”

He tells Dean how, in the beginning, they were protectors. Not just of their own home but of the surrounding humans who had settled there. They kept monsters away, creating deterrents and spells, and if one managed to slip through the cracks, they would hunt it down and—

“I believe you would call it overkill,” Castiel says. 

“I would call it hunting,” Dean replies. 

The distance between Castiel and his mouth grows as he tells Dean how it changed. The leadership, he says, not  _ Our Father _ , died. And it was up to the eldest Angels to take his place. 

The eldest Angels did not care about humans. 

“They thought it was beneath Angels to care,” Castiel says. Contempt weaves its way through his words. “They became isolated, self-important, and self-serving.”

The goal of Paradise shifted. Michael, the first Angel, wanted to eliminate humans entirely. They were unnatural, with their lack of grace and magic. The Angels turned on their neighbors like someone flipped a switch. 

Castiel looks at Dean, and Dean is frowning at him but not yet in a homicidal fashion. He continues. 

“There was an uprising against Michael. He was either killed or imprisoned; no one knows for certain. And after that was Raphael.”

Raphael, while contemptuous of humans, did not want them exterminated. Instead he simply wanted control. He would stop the Angel attacks if the humans gave him their loyalty. And if not, well, they were nothing more than a bug to be squashed. It was around this time that Castiel first heard the whispers of rebellion. 

“Wait, you were there?” Dean interrupts. “During Michael’s killing spree and everything?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, waiting to be deemed a threat. 

“And how long ago was this?” Dean asks. 

“Around two hundred years,” Castiel says. “Give or take a century. I was never very good at keeping track.”

Dean looks at him like he just said the sky was hot pink. “You’re over two hundred years old.”

“Yes,” Castiel says again. Closer to a millenium. He spares Dean that fact, as it looks like he’s having enough trouble with two centuries. “May I continue?”

Dean nods. Castiel waits another second before he continues to be sure Dean will absorb what he’s saying. 

“As I said, there were whispers of rebellion.”

Castiel found himself in the middle of a civil war. The Angels had turned on each other, with no room for intermediaries. Angels were killed for taking the wrong side or refusing to take a side at all. Castiel rose in the rebellion’s ranks until he was its face. 

“I killed Raphael,” he says. The curling scars across his skin twinge; he shifts, and they settle. “I tried to leave, but there was another Angel looking to follow Raphael’s wishes, another trying to resurrect Michael, another looking to end Angels once and for all. There was always something or someone to fight against.”

“And you got tired of death,” Dean says. 

Castiel clasps his hands between his knees. “I did. Others did not.” He hesitates; Dean waits. “I recognized four of the Angels you found. They were considered traitors. A peace had been established, and they refused to return to the ranks.”

“So they were killed?” Dean says.

“It threatened the new world order,” Castiel says, hating the voice in his head that speaks simultaneously. “If the remaining Angels didn’t stand together, it would make us look weak.”

Dean is quiet. Castiel waits in silence, unable to look at the market or Dean, and watches the movements of his hands as he squeezes them. He forces them apart when he feels the bones grinding together.

“So you’re telling me,” Dean says ages later, “that you were part of a supernatural mafia.”

“That would not be an inaccurate comparison,” Castiel says. 

“Huh,” Dean says. Something buzzes; at first Castiel thinks it’s one of the bees making a nest in the gazebo’s rafters, but Dean pulls a phone out of his pocket. He frowns at the screen, swiping a thumb across it. “I gotta head out.” From a different pocket he pulls out a pen and tears a piece off the Happy Meal box. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, so here’s my numbers.”

“Why would I need your phone number?” Castiel asks.

Dean pauses his scribbling and looks up. “I owe you information, don’t I? This way when you think of something equal, you can just ask.”

Castiel can’t imagine he’ll have any pressing questions that can’t wait until whenever Dean returns. He takes the scrap of cardboard when it’s offered to him anyway, since he also can’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. 

Dean gathers his trash and stands. “See ya later, Castiel.”

Castiel watches him go, not bothering to look away when Dean glances back just before he rounds the corner of the market. He left Castiel the Happy Meal toy, a little plastic fish. Castiel picks it up, turning it in his fingers. 

It didn’t sound horrible, his name coming from Dean’s mouth. Still strange after all this time as Steve, but not as loaded as when Adina said it or as upsetting as when Hilde repeated it. 

He chalks it up to a lack of shared history and returns to the market with the fish making an odd bulge in his shirt pocket along with the list of Dean’s numbers and his mind wandering far past the display of fruits. 


	8. Chapter 8

Four mornings after Dean has left, Castiel feels—off. Something keeps trying to pry its way to the front of his mind, but every time he thinks about it, it disappears. The niggling thing follows him while he feeds the goats and the dogs, sets out new kibble for the cats, cleans up the workshop a little after another pre-dawn repotting session. He can’t place it until he’s changing into a new shirt and smooths his hand over the strip of buttons just when it happens— 

A flicker. Like the guttering of light as a breeze crosses a flame. He presses his hand over his heart and feels the heat of his grace against his palm for one, two, three seconds before it shudders again. 

If he still had a heartbeat, he would have felt it skip.

His first thought is Adina’s strike to his shoulder. It had taken a long time to heal properly, and he’d brought his grace to the broken edges of the wounds so many times; maybe Adina had managed to enchant her blade to attack his grace. He’d thought it impossible to add magic to an Angel’s blade, but he’d thought a lot of things were impossible before. 

He feels a distant sort of anxiety as his grace turns and curls and settles back around his ribs, dimmer than before. He has to get to the market. As long as his body is not falling off its bones, he can get through at least this morning.

Just before the market is in view, Castiel’s grace burns and buzzes at the base of his skull. He can see the glow of magic around the bend and speeds to the parking lot, where he can only sit and look out at the grounds.

Every plant, every seedling working its way into a fully realized being, is dead. The glow around them is angry, accentuating the blackness of the leaves and stems and flower buds. Everything Castiel has touched with grace—gone. Even the grass, the weeds, the trees that had been growing longer than the West Virginia boundaries had existed, all of it is caught in a state of decay. It feels like looking in a mirror.

“Hey!”

Castiel slides his eyes away from the gardens to find Sheena marching toward his truck.

“I don’t know how you did it, but I know it was you,” she’s saying. She’s stopped next to his open window. “Or because of you, but you know what? I don’t care. Get out of here.”

He blinks at her.

He did this.

Did he do this?

“Steve!” Sheena snaps. 

“Castiel,” he says, focusing on her finally. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it makes Sheena take half a step back. “My name is Castiel.”

“Whatever your name is,” Sheena says, voice shaking, “get off my property and don’t come back.”

Castiel goes.

When he gets back to the nursery he realizes he could have argued that Hilde owned half of the market, too, and she would never have ordered him away; but then, she wasn’t there to see all the rot.

He couldn’t have done all of that without knowing.

Unless— 

Castiel digs the old pickle jar out from under the kitchen sink. He’d washed it, taken off what was left of the label, and stored it for future use. He’d started to think it  _ wasn’t  _ going to be used again. 

Armed with the jar and his blade, he closes himself away in the bathroom. On the other side of the door the dogs whine, Penelope the loudest of all. He sits on the floor with his back to the door in case any of them have gotten ideas from Athena. Removing the lid from the jar with one hand, he lifts his blade with the other. He feels the tip of it as a point of heat, a still-smoking head of a match pressed just above the hollow of his throat. He fills his lungs and guides the blade through his skin.

His grace flows out of the wound, dragging against his bones as it tries to cling to them. For a moment, it dances uncertainly in front of him, looking for a place to go, and then it finds the jar, nestling itself inside the glass as if it were a proper home.

Castiel’s heart thuds painfully before it falls into a rhythm that pulses at the edges of his new-old wound, blood dripping into his shirt collar. Bandages. He always forgets the bandages. He closes the jar before his grace gets any ideas about coming back out and then retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink. As he tapes gauze over the cut, exhaustion creeps into the spaces left behind by his grace. He just manages to secure the gauze before sleep pulls him under.

 

Castiel never intended to stay in Bubbling Springs. It was just another place to hide at the time. And then he found the dogs. They had picked the same hiding place as him, an abandoned orchard house he later learned was supposed to be cursed along with the orchard. They were impossibly small, their eyes still closed, and the mother had been gone a whole day. He bundled them up in his bloody coat and took them to the nearest house over a mile away. Hilde had answered the door, and when he passed out on her porch, she called her nurse friend Linda, who lived closer than the nearest hospital.

 

He wakes up with his heart pounding, unsure what’s woken him. The bathroom door presses insistently into his spine. Athena barks again, sharp and close to his ear. He turns; she’s wedged her way into the bathroom as far as she can go. 

“I’m awake,” he says, more gravel than voice. She licks his face once and backs out to the living room. Castiel struggles to his feet and follows her, shutting the bathroom door so he doesn’t have to pick anything up yet. The clock in the kitchen proclaims it to be a quarter past six; he’s late feeding the goats. 

Athena leads him out to the shed, where she monitors him measuring out grain to be divided among the feeders on the other side of the wall. The goats take no notice of his stiff movements, knocking into his knees and stepping on his toes without a care. He waits until they’re all finished to make sure there’s no fighting, watching Theodore in particular. This, at least, they hold back on.

He goes back to the house alone and forces his body to keep moving to feed the dogs before he allows himself to collapse on the couch.


	9. Chapter 9

Hilde calls in the morning. Castiel can’t get out from under the various dogs and cats in time to answer, instead leaning on the wall next to the phone and listening to her message as she leaves it.

“Castiel,” she says. He closes his eyes. “Are you there? If you’re there, pick up. Sheena told me something happened at the market yesterday.” She waits, and when he doesn’t answer, she sighs. “Call me back. Please.”

She hangs up. Castiel detaches from the wall to lock himself in the bathroom again. His grace shimmers at him in an accusing fashion; he puts it in the bathtub and draws the curtain.

The gauze on his neck is stiff with dried blood. It pulls on the edges of the cut when he peels it away, fresh blood springing up after it. He sheds his button-up shirt, the collar stained brown, and rinses away as much of the blood as he can while he waits for his neck to stop bleeding. It’s not a deep wound, so he’d rather let it heal in the open air if he’s not going to be leaving the house. It stings as he carefully scrubs the skin around it so it looks less like he’s a victim in a horror film.

The animals are unconcerned with his appearance either way. He gets them all fresh water and food, cleans up after what was probably a raccoon rinsing its hands in the bird bath behind the house. Two of his regular strays have made it back to the nursery; Grits, an all-white tom, and Toe, a mostly gray female except for one white toe on her left foot. Toe greets him when he returns to the house, purring loudly. He bends to pet her and realizes she’s gotten very fat since the last time he saw her. She flops onto one side, and her stomach moves independently of her actions. Castiel looks up at Grits, sitting on one of the rocking chairs unconcerned.

“Was this you?” he asks.

Grits merely blinks back.

Toe nips at his hand, so he gives her attention until she’s satisfied and slinks off to the shed where he can only hope she won’t give birth on a hay bale. He makes a mental note to get the old dog house out of the basement and leave it on the porch for her just in case.

Without the market demanding his time, Castiel spends the morning weeding his gardens until his hands cramp and he has to force himself to eat lunch. All his cereal is stale, so he eats peanut butter by the spoonful and then shares some with the dogs, who have gathered around waiting for him to drop either the spoon or, even better, the jar. After lunch, he falls asleep again, this time on the rocking chair not occupied by Grits, with Penelope covering his feet and Hund in his lap.

It was like this after the first time he removed his grace; just existing made him tired. But back then he didn’t have any company to fill his days. The most interaction he had might be nothing more than a mumbled  _ excuse me _ as he tried to make his way from one town to another with no money and little hope, and later, a festering wound from the last hunter he’d run into. 

Castiel can safely say this is a much better place to adjust to humanity.

 

Castiel reads the Men of Letters file over breakfast the next morning. There are three full pages dedicated to attempts to classify Angels. His favorite idea is crossed out but still legible:  _ children of faeries and beams of light, elemental. _ The closest and simplest idea is that Angels are a class of witches falling under the umbrella of the Naturals, even if their origins are anything but. The Men of Letters hadn’t gotten any information out of the Angel subject to their experimentation to confirm or deny their theories.

He skims accounts of Angels that ring false to him, but he has as much capability to determine their validity as the Men of Letters; that is, very little. He simply will not believe that an Angel would have appeared to a human with glowing eyes and shadow wings and demanded their full stock of maple syrup.

Not everything the Men of Letters collected is far-fetched, however. Castiel studies their sigils to keep Angels from entering an inhabitance and finds no faults, and the anti-Angel wards have only slight variations from the ones Castiel set around the nursery. He suspects they might have found an area around Paradise from Michael’s reign.

His attention wanes as he continues, and he ends up putting the file away in favor of walking the dogs around the field not open to the goats, and then he has to bathe Maurice before he rubs dead rabbit residue around the entire house.

He calls Dean two days later, firmly ignoring the ever-growing notifications of messages from Hilde. Dean never said what he would be hunting or where, but Castiel’s mind picks up the idea that something might have happened, that the attack on the market’s vegetation might not have been the only one, and he just can’t shake it. 

Dean picks up after four rings, sounding out of breath and irritated. “Ghostbusters, what do you want?”

“I can call back if this is a bad time,” Castiel says. 

“Castiel?” Dean says. When Castiel confirms, he says, “No, now’s fine. What’s up?”

There’s a muffled voice on the other end that might be saying  _ “Seriously?” _

Castiel waits another second, and when Dean doesn’t hang up, asks, “Where did you get that Men of Letters file?”

“Oh,” Dean says. “That’s not really a conversation to be had over the phone.”

_ “Gross,” _ the other voice says. Something thuds.

“Why?” Castiel asks.

“Big Brother is watching you,” Dean says. Castiel frowns. “Look, we’re almost done with this case, we can stop by on the way back.”

“We?” Castiel says.

There’s another thud, louder this time, followed by the sound of glass breaking.

“Shit,” Dean says. “Gotta go! See you soon!”

He hangs up. Castiel returns the phone to its cradle. Maybe he shouldn’t have called at all.

 

_ We _ turns out to be Dean and the other fake detective that showed up the month before. Castiel doesn’t know why he’s surprised; he supposes he assumed Dean didn’t have a regular partner if he kept coming here alone. They arrive the next evening while Castiel is feeding the goats. The dogs make a ruckus this time, which makes the goats abandon their food to stand in a clump outside while Athena growls at the intrusion. Castiel only keeps himself from dropping his face into his hand because he knows what the goats roll around in.

Dean and his partner are still in the driveway at least; Dean hasn’t actually gotten out of the car, but Castiel can hear him yelling about paint. His partner is crouched down petting Hund and Wolfgang; Penelope is by the goats, which means Maurice, the only one still barking, must be jumping at Dean.

Castiel whistles as loud as he can. Dean’s partner straightens up like he’s been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Maurice sprints around the car, stopping in his tracks, ears perked, when he sees Castiel. 

“They’ve heard you!” Castiel calls to Maurice. To the hunters he calls, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Dean’s partner lifts a hand. Castiel returns to the shed. 

It takes more than a minute for the goats to follow suit, and longer for them to settle in their usual feeding positions. Theodore butts at no less than three of his compatriots passing by, and so it takes even longer for Castiel to be able to leave. 

Halfway through the yard, Castiel realizes he’s only in a t-shirt. He stops his hand from finding his throat as he continues after a stuttered step. Dean has gotten out of the car, but he remains on the opposite side as the dogs, who are still flopped shamelessly in front of the other hunter. Penelope sticks to Castiel’s side rather than join in. 

“Sorry, the goats are less welcoming than the dogs,” Castiel says. He can feel Dean staring at him and stares back until Dean notices and looks away, toward his partner. 

“Cas, this is my brother, Sam; Sam, Castiel,” he says, gesturing between them with a half-hearted flourish. Castiel narrows his eyes at the nickname. 

Sam offers a hand. 

Castiel holds up his own, showing the dirt lining his fingerprints. “I’ll spare you the grime.”

Sam smiles a little as he puts his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for the consideration.”

“We went to the farm market first,” Dean says. Castiel’s neck throbs as he swallows compulsively. Dean is frowning at him. “What the hell happened over there?”

“I have to wash my hands,” Castiel says, glancing toward Sam. Dean seems to pick up on it. 

“Sam, why don’t you keep the dogs occupied out here for a while?” he says. 

Sam looks annoyed for a second before he crouches to pet the dogs again. 

Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel. Castiel’s grace has been sitting on top of the fridge for the last two days, and James Novak’s wallet is wedged between the couch cushions. He should move them before he lets Dean inside. But it may be more suspicious to make him wait. He nods, and Dean follows him inside. 

Two steps beyond the doorway, Dean sneezes. Penelope jumps. Castiel stops and puts a hand on her back, turning to face Dean, who has a hand hovering in front of his nose. 

“Do you—“ Dean sneezes again. It sounds like it hurts. “Do you have a cat?”

“I have four,” Castiel says.

“I’ll wait out—“ Another sneeze. “—outside. Fuck. I’m just—” 

He hitches a thumb back to the door and sneezes a fourth time as he disappears back to the porch. Castiel watches him go and then washes his hands, stows his grace away in the freezer, and goes out to join him with Penelope clinging to his side even harder than usual. He’s never been able to figure out why she hates sneezing so much, but it was hell trying to comfort her while he had the flu.

Dean is leaning against the railing watching his brother throwing sticks for Maurice, Hund, and Wolfgang. He throws one for each of them, and each time they all grab the same one and bring it back.

“Your dogs are weird,” Dean says, sounding congested.

“They’re a little strange,” Castiel agrees, having to sidestep so Penelope doesn’t knock him over when Dean sniffles. Somewhat reluctantly he asks, “Are you okay? I don’t have any antihistamines.”

“Are  _ you _ okay?” Dean counters, touching his own neck just above his collar. 

Castiel mirrors him; the scab is rough beneath his fingers, itching to be peeled away. “It’s nothing.” He forces his hand back to his side. “You were going to tell me where you got the Men of Letters file.”

Dean looks like he wants to argue the meaning of  _ nothing _ . “It was in the bunker—their old headquarters before they got wiped out.”

“You’ve been in their headquarters,” Castiel says. “Are you—”

“A  _ legacy _ ,” Dean says in the same tone as he first said  _ angels _ . He makes a face to go with it. “Destined to carry on the tradition of lore nerds. Don’t worry, I was raised hunting.”

That only raises more questions. Castiel can see why he wouldn’t want to potentially broadcast that fact, at least; he was taught about the Men of Letters when they spread to the United States, and though they claimed to be only observers, they made enough enemies to require their secrecy. 

“Is that file everything they knew about Angels?” he asks.

“It’s all I could find. Sam might be able to find something else; he has way more patience for old books than I do,” Dean says. He considers Castiel. “Why are you asking?”

Penelope decides she’s had enough comfort and lopes down the stairs to steal the stick away from the boys, running away from Sam before he can get it back. With nothing to do, Castiel’s hands settle on the railing.

“The market,” he says after a moment of staring at his hands. “It was an Angel’s curse, I’m sure of it. What I’m not so certain of is my own guilt or innocence in the matter.”

“What, like you blacked out and decided to destroy all your handiwork?” Dean says. 

“More like someone else might have accomplished their objective with my hands,” Castiel says. He does his best to ignore his racing heart; of all people to confide in, he chooses a hunter. “When I spoke about following orders, it was not always a conscious choice.”

“Well shit,” Dean says after an eternity of silence. “You weren’t in a supernatural mafia, you were in a supernatural cult.”

Castiel laughs, a shock of breath escaping him before he can catch it. “That is your takeaway?”

“I’m still confused why you want to know if there’s more information in the bunker,” Dean says. “You think there’s something that can tell you if you’re the one who fucked up the farm market?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “I’m not—” He gestures to his throat before he remembers Dean has no idea what that means. “It isn’t a concern while I’m human, but if I’m to return my grace, I would like to be sure I’m the only one able to control it.”

“I can ask Sam to check the archives,” Dean says. “Or you can come check them yourself.”

Castiel frowns at him. “I can’t.”

“The wards aren’t going to keep you out if you’re human, are they?”

“They shouldn’t,” Castiel says. “But I can’t leave the animals by themselves.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Right, yeah, obviously.”

“I would appreciate it if you would ask Sam to look,” Castiel says after another silent eternity. “If he is more patient than you.”

“Yeah, of course. I should have already asked, honestly, but he gets so...little brother-y about it.”

“You’re older?” Castiel says, just to say something.

“Just because he’s a sasquatch doesn’t mean he’s older,” Dean says, hands flying out in an annoyed splay. Castiel feels the laugh bubbling up this time and stops it before it can become more than a smile. Dean glances over and puts his hands back on the railing. “What about you? Any younger brothers of your own?”

“I don’t think so,” Castiel says. “All the siblings I knew were older than me. Some of them might have acted less mature, though.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Dean muses. Castiel looks at him head-on, not sure if he should be offended.

“Hey, I think one of your dogs just ate a bird,” Sam says from the space where the hydrangea used to be, making Castiel jump.

“Was it the one with the brown face?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah.” Sam leans around the house, grimacing after a second. “And now it looks like he’s throwing it back up.”

Castiel closes his eyes for a second. Maurice really loves testing him. He looks from Sam to Dean. “I should take care of that.”

“We’ll get out of your hair,” Dean says. “I’ll call you if we find anything.”

“If I don’t answer, assume Maurice has eaten another bird,” Castiel says, bypassing both brothers to face what will surely be a very unpleasant mess.


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel’s diet of peanut butter and stale cereal finally breaks him and he goes to the grocery store at the edge of Capon Bridge. The whole time he feels like he’s being watched, suspicious of everyone else in the store. When he gets home with still-meager supplies, he finds Toe, Wolfgang, and a litter of kittens on Penelope’s bed. Penelope sulks on the floor beside them.

He angers Toe trying to get the kittens onto clean blankets so he can wash the bed, earning scratches across the backs of his hands, so he sets out an old box and hopes she’ll move the kittens on her own while he works outside. At least she didn’t give birth in his bed.

Dean calls three days later, but he and Sam haven’t found anything.

“We’re working on it,” he says. “There’s just so much shit to read, plus we never know if something is going to be cursed because in addition to being world class creeps, these guys apparently had never heard of a curse box!”

“Is this rage coming from personal experience?” Castiel asks. He plucks a dead leaf off one of the spider plants in the kitchen and then inspects the rest of them as Dean talks.

“Let’s just say I won’t be grabbing any bear paws any time soon,” Dean says. 

Castiel’s face tries to smile and frown at the same time. “I don’t know why you would in the first place.”

“You’re telling me if you saw a taxidermied bear foot lying around you wouldn’t touch it,” Dean says. Castiel considers; he probably would, actually, if only to get it away from him. Dean’s voice is smug when he says, “That’s what I thought.”

“So you called to tell me you’re risking life and potentially cursed limb?” Castiel asks.

“And to check that nothing else weird has happened in your neck of the woods,” Dean says.

“Nothing weird,” Castiel assures him, chalking up the feeling of being watched to simple paranoia. “But do you happen to know anyone interested in kittens?”

 

Dean calling becomes a routine, if getting phone calls at random times in the day whenever Dean is especially bored can be considered routine. Castiel takes to carrying the phone with him; when he harvests blooms that should be going to the market, when he sits to read in the sun with the goats, when he checks the wards around the property. He  _ likes _ talking to Dean. It breaks up the monotony of feeding the animals, working around the house, feeding the animals again. 

He also hasn’t had anyone who knows what’s in the world since he left Paradise. Not anyone friendly, at least.

Dean seems to like talking to him too, which Castiel will admit he finds strange; all he has to talk about are the animals, but Dean starts to pick up all of their names and will ask about them individually if Castiel hasn’t brought them up already. He seems to enjoy Maurice stories the most. Castiel could have guessed that would happen.

Castiel’s cat population grows over the next week. First Magdalena returns for the first time in months, a surprise considering she’s been around as long as Castiel has lived at the nursery. Next is Beatrice, and then Oliver, and with the four kittens, it brings his total number of cats up to nine. 

They all filter in and out of the house as they please, though Magdalena stays inside most of the time; Toe lets her sleep with the kittens, but has decided she now hates Beatrice, who looks a little chubby for Castiel’s liking. The kittens themselves start moving around, and Castiel enjoys watching them wobble around while Toe or Magdalena nudge them back toward the bed if they stray too far. He digs baby gates out of the basement and blocks the kittens out of the kitchen and dining room. The last time he used them was when he brought home a not-so-little puppy Penelope and didn’t want her going up and down the stairs when he wasn’t around.

Then Dean calls and finally tells Castiel he and Sam found something, and that he’ll be heading over soon. He expects to arrive in two days.

Two days pass, and Castiel doesn’t hear a word from Dean. He gives it another day, and when he still hasn’t heard anything, he calls Dean. Dean doesn’t pick up. Castiel leaves a message, gives him an hour to call back, and then he digs through his laundry until he finds a chunk of a Happy Meal box and calls every other number on the list.

The third one gets answered. Castiel’s relief is short-lived.

“Who is this?” a voice that isn’t Dean’s demands.

“I’m looking for Dean,” Castiel says. “He gave me this number.”

There’s silence, and then, “Castiel?”

Castiel fights to place the voice. “Sam?”

“I thought Dean was with you,” Sam says slowly. “He told me he was in Romney last night.”

“I haven’t heard from him at all,” Castiel says.

“I’ll track his phone and call you back.”

 

According to Sam, Dean’s phone is just outside of Romney at a Motel 6. Castiel debates leaving the nursery at all, but Sam tells him he’s nearly a day away, and the worry clawing at Castiel’s throat matches the concern half-hidden in Sam’s voice. Penelope trails after him and whines as he stows both his and Adina’s blades in his sleeves. He holds her face in his hands for a moment.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises her. As he seals his wards, he prays it wasn’t a lie.

Castiel hasn’t been to the western side of Romney very often, but the Motel 6 is easy enough to find. Dean’s car is in the lot; it does nothing to make his ribs unclench from around his lungs. Castiel parks next to it and peers inside. He doesn’t see Dean’s phone. 

Sam gave him the name on Dean’s credit card. The woman behind the counter tells him Dean is in room 12, which is the door in front of Dean’s car. She also tells him she hasn’t seen him go in or out since he checked in the night before. Castiel thanks her and goes to knock on the door. As he suspected, there’s no answer. He tries the doorknob. It turns easily in his hand. He goes inside.

The room is dark except for the sliver of light slipping through the doorway past Castiel. It’s enough for him to see the Enochian spread across every surface of the room. 

_ RETURNYOUAREFOUNDCASTIELRETURNRETURNRETURN _

_ C A S T I E L _

Castiel slams the door shut and runs back to his truck, shaking hands struggling to get the key in the ignition. He can feel them coming. He tears away from the curb as he hears the first crackles splitting the air. 

They’re going to catch him. There’s no way they’re not going to catch him.

He finds himself on the south side of Capon Bridge, speeding his way toward Bubbling Springs with no idea how he got through Romney. He keeps himself braced for one of his siblings to pop up in the passenger seat, prepared to swerve to throw them out of the cab. He checks his mirrors for any car following him, and when he looks back through the windshield, the sky is filled with smoke.

The market is still burning when Castiel is stopped by a barricade. Sheena’s car is nowhere to be seen, a small comfort when the market’s roof collapses as he watches. He’s diverted to a side road that adds an extra five miles to the route to the nursery. As those five miles disappear behind him, his heart stops.

There’s another plume of smoke.

It’s coming from the nursery.

There are no police cars to stop him from driving up, no firefighters trying to stop the spread of the blaze. Castiel stops the truck where the mailbox used to stand and gets out. The heat makes his eyes water, the smoke quickly filling his throat. He pulls his collar over his mouth and fights the nausea churning in his stomach. There’s nothing left.

He’s staring at the place where the nursery should be—the house, the goat shed, the tree line where he carved all his wards—and there’s nothing left. Hardly even an ember to be seen. 

He was only gone for forty minutes. 

There’s no way the animals could have gotten out.

There’s a sound like lightning around him, and when his siblings grab his arms, he lets them take him away.


	11. Chapter 11

When Castiel was new to this world, he was tasked only with watching, and as a result, learning. He watched his eldest siblings build Paradise, watched the towns around them grow and fill with humans, watched their insistence on survival. He learned to channel the light inside him, to build and break and heal with its power. He grew fond of the way humans lived with only the light of flames. Once he had learned enough, he was honed into a weapon for his Father’s cause, and again for his brother’s, and again, and again, and again. 

Looking at Naomi, Castiel feels a phantom pain behind his eye and knows that she is the one who honed him. She smiles. 

“Hello, Castiel.”

He remains silent. If he opens his mouth, he’s not sure he could stop screaming, as fruitless as it would be. 

“It’s been quite a few years,” Naomi continues, as if they’re simply attending a family reunion. Her smile could almost be pleasant if Castiel weren’t shackled to a chair. “How did you enjoy being a farmer?”

Castiel refuses to blink.

“Well,” Naomi says after a moment. “If you’re not going to participate in small talk, let’s get down to business, shall we? I believe you know why you’re here, but I’ll go ahead and explain for our guest.”

Castiel watches her nod, and then two Angels are walking into the room with someone in a hood held up between them. They dump the third person in a chair matching Castiel’s, the shackles closing over their wrists and ankles with a decisive  _ click _ . Naomi waves the hood away and moves to stand behind an unconscious and bloodied Dean. Castiel’s hands curl into fists as she places her hands on his shoulders, a flash of grace visible beneath her palms just before Dean jolts awake.

Castiel does his best to keep his face blank watching him struggle against the restraints. Dean notices him and freezes.

“Cas.”

“Dean Winchester,” Naomi says. Dean tracks her movement until she stops off to the side, exactly in the middle of both of them, with her hands folded in front of her. “Hunting since his mother, Mary Campbell, was killed by a Knight of Hell.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Dean asks. Castiel wishes he would shut up. “Any hunter could tell you that.”

“That is true,” Naomi concedes. “We’re not here to talk about you in either case. We’re here to talk about Castiel.  _ Cas _ .” She slides her gaze back to Castiel; he lets his eyes roam the room while she talks. “Not many hunters could tell you about him, now could they?”

There’s a desk behind Dean, a chair tucked under it neatly, and a fist-sized paperweight with a scorpion poised to sting in the center of the glass. Castiel pushes down his revulsion and turns his attention to the shelves; they’re filled with books, nothing interesting until he notices the glow coming from behind them. He looks to the space between Dean’s shoes instead. The chair is bolted to the floor.

“In fact, I believe the last hunter Castiel met, he killed, isn’t that right, Castiel?” Naomi says. Castiel clenches his jaw until it feels like his teeth will break. He doesn’t dare look at Dean. “I do wonder what was different about you, Dean, but I’m getting off-track. How much has Castiel told you about the end of Paradise?”

“I really don’t care,” Dean says. 

“Nothing, then. That’s interesting. Do you think, Dean, that he’s ashamed of killing so many Angels? That he regrets trying to close us off from the rest of the world?”

“From what I’ve seen, he shouldn’t,” Dean says.

“No,” Castiel says, tearing his eyes away from the floor to look at him. Broken hand, most likely a concussion judging by the blood under his hair, possibly broken ribs. Naomi didn’t heal him. He meets Dean’s searching eyes. “Don’t defend me.”

“Cas, whatever you did,” Dean starts.

“Allow me to show you,” Naomi says, extending a hand to press two fingers to his forehead before he has to chance to flinch back. His eyes close. Castiel looks at the bookshelves again; he can practically hear it humming if he focuses hard enough. He just has to find the right book—and somehow get it open.

Dean slumps in his chair once Naomi has withdrawn her hand. “Of course you can Vulcan mind-meld.”

“Now you see that Castiel is a deeply flawed individual,” Naomi says. “I only want to help him be the best he can be.”

Dean’s face is incredulous when Castiel glances over. “ _ Be the best he can be _ ? Did you really just say that? Have you ever stopped to think that your ‘help’ is what made him explode?”

Naomi blinks, placid. “Of course not. If Castiel had merely accepted my help, he wouldn’t have had such...emotions. He needs us, Dean. You, on the other hand?” She makes a skeptical expression before she turns to Castiel, frozen under her gaze. “You will return to us, Castiel. Whether it’s by your own choice is up to you.”

At her behest, another Angel steps forward from behind Castiel. He has a scar crossing his face, and his eyes are hard. He drops a blade into his hand.

“This is Theo,” she says. “He has very generously agreed to help you choose.”

“What, by torturing him?” Dean says.

Naomi’s calm exterior betrays nothing. “Of course not, Dean. He’s here to give Castiel options. More specifically: Castiel can kill you himself, or he can watch Theo kill you as slowly as he likes.” She smiles again. “I'll give you a moment to consider.”

She disappears, but Castiel has no doubt she’s still in the room. 

“Cas—”

“Don’t,” Castiel says. “Just be quiet and let me think.”  

Theo stands stoically between them, closer to Dean than Castiel. His hands are loose on the blade’s handle. Castiel takes a breath and focuses on a single spot behind his sternum where his grace should be; it hums and hums, in tune with his heart. He uncurls his fingers, letting them rest on the arms of the chair like he chose to be bound in it.

“I can’t sit here and watch you die.”

“Cas,” Dean says, like he can’t believe what Castiel is saying.

“I’ve made my choice,” Castiel says.

Naomi reappears behind Dean, hands on the back of the chair. He just keeps looking at Castiel, face shuttered.

“And what is your choice, Castiel?” she asks.

“Let me kill him,” Castiel says, holding Dean’s gaze. The restraints click, and Castiel stands, stiff. 

“If you try anything, he’ll die anyway,” Naomi says.

“I know,” Castiel says. He steps forward, and Theo holds out his blade. Castiel takes it, rolling it in his palm. Angels are faster than he is. He just as to be quicker. He pushes everything into that spot behind his sternum as he stares at Dean. “Close your eyes.”

Naomi catches the blade. It gives him just long enough to knock over the bookshelf.

Glass shatters, filling the room with blinding light. Theo catches Castiel by the collar, jerking him away from the shine of grace but not in time to stop his grace from finding him. It doesn’t burn this time.

Castiel breaks Theo’s hold, kicking him away. The graces have surrounded Naomi, and she screams, stumbling away from Dean. Castiel tears away the restraints before Theo gets a grip on him again. He hits the ground hard, head cracking against the ground. Theo raises his blade. 

Castiel rolls. The blade sinks into the floor. Light pours from Theo’s skull. It takes Castiel a second to process Dean standing over him, bloody Angel blade in hand.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. More glass shatters. Castiel jumps to his feet in time to see Naomi fall through a window; the room dims, flickering to show yellowing wallpaper and moth-eaten furniture. Castiel grabs Dean and pulls him out of the room.

The two Angels that brought Dean in are waiting in the hall. Castiel recognizes Bartholomew and positions himself in front of Dean.

“I’ve always wondered who would win in a fight,” Bartholomew says. 

“It isn’t exactly fair, is it,” Castiel says, holding out his empty hands. Bartholomew smiles and throws him a blade—his blade. Castiel has a second to be shocked before Bartholomew charges.

Castiel wins. Bartholomew gets in a strike to his ribs, slicing the sigils carved in his skin years ago. The other Angel crushes Castiel’s shoulder while he’s hunched over the wound. Dean shoves him away, holding his own until the Angel targets the ribs that are most definitely now broken. Castiel pulls Dean back and throws his blade in the same instant. The Angel falls.

“Can you run?” Castiel asks. There’s no time to heal either one of them.

Dean nods even as he wheezes. 

They just have to get out of the house; Castiel can feel the wards holding him in, keeping him from simply jumping away. 

They get down a set of stairs, an exit just visible, when something grabs Castiel and pins him to the wall. He blinks, and Naomi is in front of him, hand squeezing around his throat.

“You’ve destroyed us, Castiel,” she says. Her skin is covered in burns; glass pokes out of her bloody suit. “I can’t let you leave.”

Her other hand comes up and presses into his chest, hot as a flame. He can’t speak, can’t move. He sees the Angels he’s killed, trusting eyes filling with betrayal, the flash of Paradise crumbling into the earth, the nursery consumed by flames. He deserves this, the searing away of the sigil in his chest. His grace pulls away from his bones, and then— 

“Cas. Cas!” Dean is close. Castiel lifts a hand and finds his broken hand. He lets his grace pour under his skin. His face swims into view, unblemished and concerned. He looks down at himself and then grabs Castiel’s shirt, hauling him up from the floor. “Cas, come on, we gotta go.”

There’s a strange noise, like thunder but smaller. Castiel looks around and sees the house shaking. Naomi is dead in front of him. He grabs Dean’s hands, still tugging at him, and jumps. The last thing he sees is a stretch of green and a clear blue sky before he collapses in the dirt.


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel’s body is broken. He can feel bones poking through skin, organs misaligned and bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. He stares up at the sky thinking he should instead be looking at the ground. His grace is beginning to join the blood escaping so many wounds. 

A man’s voice reaches his ears. “ _ You’re still alive, oh god, how are you still alive.” _

Castiel reaches for him with a shattered hand and in a voice crackling with bone and blood he says, “ _ You.” _

 

Castiel opens his eyes slowly, expecting to find a broken body next to him but instead there is something warm and whole. A voice carries over, quiet and calm over some kind of cacophonous noise.

“Yeah, I’ll text you when we’re outside,” it says. “I think he’s waking up, I gotta go.”

Castiel blinks, but the view in front of him is still blurred. He turns his head and realizes he’s in a car. Dean turns the already quiet radio down even further. 

“Cas?” he says, just as quiet. Castiel wipes a hand across his mouth and stares down at bloody fingers. “Cas, hey, talk to me. Are you okay?”

“I seem to be alive,” Castiel says.  _ Oh god how _ . He doesn’t know what to do with the blood. 

“Here,” Dean says. Castiel sees him holding something out—wet wipes. He takes one, crushing it in his hand. “We’re almost at the bunker, you can get cleaned up better in there.”

“Okay,” Castiel says. He looks around the car. “This isn’t yours.”

“No,” Dean confirms. 

Castiel leans against the door. “This isn’t mine either.”

“The car?” Dean says. 

Castiel puts his hand on his chest, over the skin Naomi tried to burn away. “The body.”

Dean doesn’t ask him to explain. Castiel wouldn’t have answered if he did, letting the blurry landscape outside the window capture his full attention. The car stops moving some time later, and Castiel rouses enough to notice a large set of doors in front of them. They open, and Dean drives through to a large garage.

“Home sweet home,” Dean says as he shuts off the car. He gets out, and it takes Castiel long enough to make himself move that Dean rounds the car and opens the door for him. He offers a hand. Castiel takes it, letting Dean take half his weight as he leverages himself on to his feet. “You good? Sam made an exception for you in the wards, but if they’re affecting you—” 

“It’s not the wards.” Castiel slides his hand out of Dean’s as he straightens his spine. “I’m fine.”

Dean doesn’t look like he believe it, but he doesn’t press it either. “Follow me then.”

Castiel pays little attention to the scenery they pass. Eventually Dean stops them in a hall full of doors. 

“Let me get you some clean clothes,” he says, and disappears through one of them. Castiel leans against the wall. By the time Dean comes back, he’s on the floor, and everything is blurry again. Dean looms for a few seconds, silent, and then he says, “Do you want some company down there?”

Castiel looks up at him, and then Dean sits next to him, clothes folded in his hands. Castiel still has the wet wipe clutched in his. He looks down at it and realizes abruptly that he’s crying. He didn’t know that he could, with his grace. 

“They burned the nursery,” he says, and his chest  _ aches _ . “There was nothing left, it’s just—gone.”

“Cas,” Dean says, putting a careful hand on Castiel’s wrist. Castiel looks at him. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I was supposed to protect them,” Castiel says. Dean’s hand comes up to the back of Castiel’s neck. He lets himself be pulled forward as Dean’s other arm wraps around him. He rests his forehead on Dean’s shoulder, blocking out the light, the hallway, everything that isn’t Dean holding on like he’s about to fall to pieces. “I’m sorry,” he says, again and again. To Dean, to his animals, to James Novak, whose face and body and life he stole.

“It’s okay,” Dean tells him.

Castiel wants him to be right.

 

There’s a numbness to be found after crying for an unspecified amount of time on the floor of a bunker built for people who would have liked to see him dead. Castiel leans into it while he showers, while he puts on the clothes Dean picked for him, while he lays in the bed in the room Dean told him he can stay in.

“As long as you want,” Dean said. “If you need anything, my room’s right across the hall.”

Castiel had nodded, and Dean had left him to his own devices. His own devices seem only to include remaining immobile and staring at the ceiling. His grace has healed him, erasing the fingerprint blisters on his chest and leaving a clean line across his side. He still feels a little like he’s floating just outside his body, like if he sneezed he would go shooting away. Fortunately for him, he doesn’t have to worry about sneezing in his present condition.

Some time later, someone knocks on the door. “Castiel?”

Sam. Castiel gets out of the bed and opens the door. Sam smiles at him a little.

“Sorry to bother you, but I was just about to do some laundry if you want to throw your clothes in,” he says. 

“I burned them,” Castiel says. The last of his worldly possessions, and he destroyed them in a fit of pique.

“Oh,” Sam says, smile faltering. “Right. Sure.”

“Thank you for asking,” Castiel says, attempting to smile back.

“No problem,” Sam says. “I’ll just...leave you to it.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says again. He waits until Sam has gone to close the door again. As it clicks shut, he finds he doesn’t want to be in the room anymore.

Sam went left down the hallway, so Castiel goes right. He doesn’t remember how he and Dean got to this hallway from the garage, or anything between there and here. He passes Dean’s room, where the door is wide open, and continues until he finds an open room with a lit-up table and stairs leading up to a door on one side and bookshelves on the other. Dean is on the far end with the bookshelves, feet propped on a second chair with a laptop in his lap. He looks up when Castiel steps through the doorway.

“Hey,” he says, sounding surprised.

“Hello,” Castiel says.

“You look—better,” Dean says.

Castiel looks down at himself and then back at Dean, eyebrows raised. “Not covered in blood?”

“More,” Dean starts, gesturing to Castiel with both hands, “there.”

“That may be accurate,” Castiel says. He finds it easier to smile as he adds, “I’m not sure yet.” He looks at the papers spread on the table next to Dean. “Are you working on a hunt?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, putting the laptop on the table as he sits up. Castiel sits in the chair his feet previously occupied. “There’ve been a few deaths that might line up with a rakshasa up in Michigan.”

He angles the laptop so Castiel can see the headline:  _ Third Break-in Death in Two Weeks _ . There’s a picture of the latest victim beneath it, a smiling woman who can’t be older than thirty.

“She’s young,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah.” Dean turns the laptop back around. “I already called a friend about it, but I wanted to look into it some more just in case.”

Castiel nods. Dean fiddles with some of the papers before he shuts the laptop.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Not yet,” Castiel says.

Dean nods. He fidgets some more. “Do you wanna come with me to pick up dinner?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

Dean goes to return his laptop to his room and comes back with Sam. “Slight change of plans: we’re all going out for dinner.”

Castiel doesn’t mind, but Sam looks like he expects him to so he tries to stay present and engage in conversation, but the brothers start bickering about music, a subject on which Castiel has been perpetually ignorant. He makes a noncommittal noise when he’s asked whether he likes Metallica. He knows he’s heard the name thrown around, but that’s about it. Sam takes it as agreement with his side. Castiel lets him, even though Dean’s ensuing rant gets directed at him as well.

They take an old-looking sedan into and then out of town—Lebanon, Kansas, Dean tells him. 

“The geographic center of the United States,” Castiel says, apparently before Dean can as he shuts his mouth and frowns. He sees Sam smiling in the front seat. “That’s clever.”

They end up at a place that specializes in hamburgers. Sam orders a salad, Dean orders a burger, and Castiel fights not to pull at the collar of his borrowed shirt when he catches the waitress looking at his neck.

“He’ll have the same as me,” Dean says, handing over the pile of menus with a tight smile. 

“Dean,” Castiel starts once she’s left.

“I’ll eat it if you don’t want it,” Dean says. 

Castiel forces himself to relax, a task that is exponentially easier after he buttons the top button of the shirt. It’s not terribly different to what he usually wears, but it smells like a different laundry detergent, and the fabric is worn in different places. It’s considerably weirder to be in a pair of Dean’s shoes, where the mold of Dean’s feet protests against his. He catches Dean staring at him, and Dean coughs as he looks away. Sam looks up from his phone, glances between them, and shakes his head as he goes back to whatever he was doing.

The silence is more comfortable once the food has arrived. Castiel alternates between watching the other patrons and watching Dean. He’s different here and with Sam around, both more relaxed and more on guard. He finishes his own food and raises his eyebrows at Castiel. Castiel pushes his plate towards him.

“So when do you want to go get the Impala?” Sam asks once he’s finished his salad. 

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “I haven’t thought about it.”

Sam stares at him. “You haven’t thought about it?”

Dean glances at Castiel as he shrugs. “I’ll get there when I get there.”

Sam looks at Castiel, too, frowning. Castiel presses his hands together under the table.

“Okay,” Sam says eventually. “Just don’t forget we’re supposed to be going to Jody’s next week.”

“I know we’re going to Jody’s next week,” Dean says with exaggerated patience. “You’ve both reminded me every week for the last five weeks that we are going to Jody’s next week.”

Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Just making sure.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes away Castiel’s now-empty plate. The waitress appears with the check a minute later, and they leave cloaked in silence once again.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean finds Castiel wandering the bunker at three in the morning. So far he’s found two rooms filled with books and filing cabinets, a room with a lot of machinery he couldn’t identify, and the laundry room. 

“Did I wake you?” he asks, though he can’t imagine how. He’s been silent, going barefoot on the concrete floors without touching anything else.

“I’m a light sleeper,” Dean says. “And you triggered one of the alarms using magic in the archives.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. He should have thought of that.

“You didn’t know,” Dean says. “What were you doing in there anyway?”

“I just made sure the door would be quiet when I opened it. I didn’t realize it would have the opposite effect.”

Dean squints at him, arms folded across his chest. He looks tired.

“I’ll stop using my grace,” Castiel says. “And opening closed doors.”

“You don’t sleep,” Dean says.

“No,” Castiel says. “And I’ve found that inactivity has unfortunate side effects.”

“Like what?”

“Thinking,” Castiel says.

Dean considers him for a moment. “Come with me.”

Dean takes him down three more hallways he’s never seen, but somehow they wind up in front of his room. He ushers Castiel inside. “Sit for a minute.”

Castiel sits on the very edge of Dean’s bed, watching him turn on his computer and click various things before he hands it over to Castiel.

“Here,” he says, “you can find something to watch instead of wandering. I’ll show you around in the morning if you want.”

Castiel looks at the screen, filled with miniature movie posters. “How will I know what I’ll like?”

Dean clicks one of the posters, and a video starts playing. “Start with this one. It’s got ten seasons, so you won’t run out of episodes before the humans wake up. If it asks you if you’re still watching, just click yes. Don’t forget to plug it in.”

Castiel takes the laptop and its charger to his designated room. He watches the show without absorbing any of it. The next thing he knows, Dean is knocking on the door and it’s nearly noon.

“Good, huh?” Dean says.

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies. “I don’t think I like any of the characters. But for some reason, I still couldn’t stop watching it.”

Dean laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome to binge-watching, my friend.”

 

Castiel had never allowed himself to think of Bubbling Springs as home. If he had, he would have jinxed it, would have ripped it out of his own hands somehow. Now he knows that it wouldn’t have mattered; if Naomi had been watching him the whole time, he could have called it home as much as he wanted and she would have gone through the same motions. Now that it’s gone, he feels like he’s drifting, and the only thing keeping him from floating away is Dean, who offers him food and distraction and a place to try and fill the hole of what was lost.

He appreciates it; of course he does. But still he finds himself aching to go  _ home _ .

“I could take you to Romney,” he says, apropos of nothing the fourth day he’s been in the bunker. Dean, who’s been scrolling through news feeds since he finished lunch, looks up.

“What?”

“I could take you to Romney,” Castiel repeats. “To get your car.”

Dean frowns at him. “Like how you got us out of that Angel house?”

“Yes.”

“That seemed to take a lot out of you,” Dean says.

“It wasn’t the jump,” Castiel says. His hand finds his chest, where his heart should be pounding. “Naomi, she—the easiest comparison is exorcism. When you said I looked more present, it was because I had literally been pulled part way out of this body.”

“The body that isn’t yours.”

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

“Are you possessing someone right now?” Dean asks.

“No,” Castiel says. “The owner of this body had already vacated it.”

Dean looks at him for a long time. He knows; he knows, and he’s going to tell Castiel to leave and never come back. “You’ve only had one body since the explosion?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

“Okay,” Dean says. As if it were that simple. “When do you want to go to Romney?”

Castiel takes a second to catch up. “I’ll go whenever you’d like.”

“I’ll tell Sam we’re leaving,” Dean says, moving faster than Castiel has seen when he’s at home.

He presses his hand into his chest, outlining the sigil in his mind’s eye over and over until Dean returns with a bag and a staunch sort of determination.

“Let’s go,” he says.

They have to go outside of the bunker. Dean suggests they head into town a little more, just in case, and Castiel agrees easily. He feels jittery as they walk, his grace roiling behind his ribs as if he’s preparing for battle and not something he’s been able to do since his inception. Dean had already returned his blade, and Castiel has been keeping it in his sleeve constantly. If they do end up in some sort of ambush, they’re not doing so entirely unprepared. 

They stop before they reach the houses visible in the distance. Castiel turns to Dean.

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean says, offering the hand not holding his bag.

Castiel takes it, choosing not to tell him he could simply tap him on the forehead and send him along. It proves to be useful when they land behind the motel and Dean stumbles. 

“I don’t think I will ever get used to that,” Dean says, standing very still for a moment. Castiel releases his arm when he stops looking like he’s going to vomit. He chooses not to think about Dean’s use of  _ will _ .

“Your car is still here,” he says, walking ahead.

Dean speed-walks past him. “Thank Christ. Cool though it may be, beaming up is not for me.”

Castiel hangs back while Dean has a moment with his car. He looks toward Bubbling Springs, much too far to see, even for him, but he wishes. 

“Could I borrow your phone?” he asks before he’s thought it over. Dean pauses his fawning inspection to hand it to him, already unlocked. Castiel paces to the far end of the sidewalk as he types in the number he knows by heart. The line rings and rings. He almost hangs up.

“Hello?”

Castiel could collapse in relief. “Hilde. It’s—It’s Castiel.” There’s silence. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to hear from me, I know I—”

“Don’t you even  _ think _ about hanging up,” Hilde says, and Castiel realizes she’s crying.

“I won’t,” he promises. He feels his eyes prickling and squeezes them shut. “I’m sorry. I should have called sooner, I’m so sorry.”

“Where have you been?” Hilde asks. “Penelope has been going crazy without you.”

Castiel freezes. He can barely move to say, “Penelope?”

“Yes, Penelope, the great big dog that’s been following you for four years,” Hilde says.

“She’s alive,” Castiel says. “Are there—is she—” 

He can’t ask. If he asks, the answer will be no.

“Oh, sweetie, you didn’t know,” Hilde says. “She’s with Jeff and Lin, along with all your other beasts. They’re okay.”

Castiel has to sit down. He registers someone coming up next to him but doesn’t dare to open his eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” Hilde says. “Really, really, really.”

Castiel presses his free hand over his face. 

Dean puts a hand on his back. “Cas?”

Castiel takes the phone away from his ear, holding it out to Dean blindly. His voice is muffled by his hand when he asks, “Can you make sure this is real?”

Dean takes the phone. “Uh, hello?”

_ “Who is this? _ ” Hilde asks. 

“I’m Dean, a friend of Castiel,” Dean says. Castiel leans his head against his knees and watches Dean frown. “Who is this?”

“ _ Dean the hunter?” _

“Mrs. Fischer?”

“ _ Hilde, _ ” she corrects. “ _ What happened, is Castiel okay?” _

“He asked me to make sure this is real,” Dean says, looking at Castiel with concern. His thumb makes small circles over Castiel’s spine. “I don’t know what ‘this’ is supposed to be, though.”

“ _ He thought his animals died in the fire, _ ” Hilde says.

“They didn’t?” Dean asks, a picture of surprise.

“ _ They’re all alive and well, and if he comes back, he can see all of them for himself. _ ”

Castiel buries his face in his knees, wrapping his arms over his head. Every part of him is shaking.  _ It’s real, it’s real, it’s real. _

“We can be in town in twenty minutes,” Dean says.

_ “Castiel knows where to go _ ,” Hilde says. “ _ I’ll meet you there, if he doesn’t mind. _ ”

“Let me give you back to him,” Dean says.

Castiel unfurls enough to take the phone and press it back against his ear. “Of course I want to see you.”

Hilde laughs, or maybe sobs.  _ “Good, because I wasn’t really asking.” _

Castiel smiles. “I’ll see you soon.”

_ “Love you _ ,” Hilde says. “ _ Talk soon. _ ”

Castiel hangs up. He gives the phone back to Dean, whose hand has moved up to his shoulder, half of a hug, holding Castiel together again.

“You know we’re half an hour away, don’t you?” he asks.

“So we better get going already,” Dean says.

Castiel could kiss him. He gets up instead, pulling Dean up after him, and climbs in the car. Dean gets them to Bubbling Springs in seventeen minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

The Hodges’ house is noisy. They have more animals than Castiel, rescues of all sorts all over the place. There’s a bubble caught in Castiel’s chest as he and Dean get out of the car and walk up to the house. Before Castiel can even knock, the door opens and dogs come pouring out, his dogs, Jeffrey and Linda’s dogs, bounding toward him. Penelope reaches him first, paws smashing into his chest, and the bubble bursts. He laughs as he falls, just catching himself on his knees.

He holds Penelope’s face, pressing their foreheads together as she licks his chin. Not one to be outdone, Maurice jumps up and nips at his ear. Castiel scrubs his hands over his fur, and then Hund’s, and then Wolfgang’s, and somehow Grits has gotten in the mix, and Castiel lets him climb up the back of his shirt.

“I missed you!” he tells them, each of them, and the Hodges’ dogs too for good measure.

“And what about me?” Hilde asks over the chaos of the dogs. She’s smiling when Castiel looks up at her. He wades his way out from the dog pile and falls into her waiting arms, conscious not to crush her. She’s hardly five feet tall, but still it’s as if she’s the one holding him up. She holds the back of his head and turns her face to his neck. He feels her crying. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” he promises, more than a little misty-eyed himself.

Hilde pulls back, hands sliding to his face, and pulls him down to kiss his cheek once, twice, three times. She takes a step back, wiping her eyes. “You need to shave.”

Castiel laughs, touching the facial hair that can hardly be called stubble anymore. He sees Dean standing on the porch talking to Linda, laughing at something she said, and the homesickness that had carried him back feels like nothing more than a distant memory.

The goats and Athena are less demonstrative than the dogs, but Castiel has missed them just as much; he only hopes Dean doesn’t mind that Yogurt has chewed a hole in his shirt. 

As he pets Athena, Linda says, “She came marching onto the property after everyone else, carrying a basket full of kittens. We just couldn’t believe it.”

Castiel smiles down at his goat-dog. “She’s always been able to get them to behave better than me.”

Athena looks at him like she agrees and walks away after a brief lick to his hand. Linda laughs and takes him inside to the cats, all of them, and he sits on the floor, watching the kittens running around like they weren’t stumbling over their own feet just a week ago. Castiel will never get used to how fast they grow. He looks down at Oliver and Magdalena, each taking up a thigh, while he holds Beatrice and has Grits settled across his shoulders. Dean is going to sneeze just looking at him.

He sits with the cats until the dogs start scratching at the door. As soon as he gets outside the room, they’re jumping on him again.

“I was only gone for ten minutes,” he says, but he stoops to pet them anyway. He follows voices to the backyard, where Hilde, Linda, and Dean are sitting on the patio. He and his dog horde join them, Wolfgang demanding to be placed in Hilde’s lap while the other three try to get onto his as soon as he sits. Hund wins, but Castiel pulls another chair over for Maurice to be on the same level at least. Penelope sits as close to him as she can get.

“You’ve been very missed,” Linda says, a little sadness creeping into her smile.

“The feeling is mutual,” Castiel says, mirroring her expression. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to take them back.”

“The Millers are moving to Ohio,” Hilde says. “They’ve already told me they’ll sell you their farm for cheap if you want it.”

Castiel opens his mouth, closes it again when his voice doesn’t respond. He was sure they hated him. “I don’t have any money.”

“Of course you have money,” Hilde says. “I’ve been putting aside extra money for you for years.”

“What?”

“You never let me pay you enough for everything you do,” Hilde says. “So I put aside everything you wouldn’t take. It should be enough to cover a few payments at least.”

Castiel stares at her. “I’m both grateful and a little angry.”

“What is family for?” Hilde says, smirking. “And you and your indoor beasts can stay with me until they leave.”

“We’ll keep the goats here for you,” Linda says. “Of course. As long as you come to help out.”

“Of course,” Castiel echoes.

Dean clears his throat, getting to his feet. “Sorry to interrupt a heartfelt moment, but I should be heading out.”

“Are you sure?” Hilde asks. “You’re welcome to stay with me too, at least for tonight.”

“I—”

“We should have dinner!” Linda exclaims. “Jeff will want to meet Castiel’s boyfriend, too.”

Castiel bites back a correction as Dean stumbles over himself.

“We’ve already met,” Dean says, “and we’re not—”

“I’ll call him,” Linda says, already getting up. She puts her hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “He’ll be so happy you’re back.”

“If we’re having dinner, I have to go change,” Hilde says, and leaves before Dean can object further.

Castiel watches him working out what just happened and tries not to smile when Dean sinks into the chair Linda previously vacated, bewildered. “Southern hospitality,” he says when Dean looks over.

“We’re not dating,” Dean says. “Right? I mean, not that it’s the worst idea in the world, but we’re not—right?”

Castiel loses his battle against a smile, because Dean only looks more confused. “We’re not dating,” he confirms. 

Dean nods. “I was pretty sure I would’ve noticed that.”

“Let’s see how you get through dinner first,” Castiel says. 

He laughs at Dean’s shock as Linda calls out, “Jeff’s on his way home! How do y’all feel about that Italian place?”

“Italian is good,” Dean says.

“Sounds great,” Castiel calls back. He smiles at Dean. Dean smiles back. It’s good to be home.

**Author's Note:**

> Animals in danger warning: at one point Cas believes his animals have been killed in a fire; they haven't, and all of them are shown to be safe by the end.
> 
> And now for a little sappiness: This fic has existed in some iteration or another since 2015. You would not recognize the first version at _all_ ; to say actually finishing it and being happy with the end result is a surreal experience would be an understatement. So thank you for reading my three year monster project, and I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
